


a pale bright flame

by calarinanis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Married Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28008513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calarinanis/pseuds/calarinanis
Summary: Prince Jon visits Winterfell to meet his betrothed Sansa Stark before their marriage and finds that she is much changed in the five years since they last met.  She is more beautiful than he remembered yet her tongue remains unchanged.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 123
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2020





	a pale bright flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [k0skareeves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/k0skareeves/gifts).



> Hope you like it! Happy Holidays! :)

An ice maiden was his first thought. 

She was sylphlike with the slenderest of smiles gracing her face as she looked upon him. Lady Sansa Stark was to be his intended wife. They had been betrothed as mere children when the Duke Eddard had taken him as a ward into his household to serve as a brother for the Marquess Robb. That had only lasted two years, however, before he had been spirited away by his true father. He had not seen the Lady Sansa in five years and she had grown far beyond the haughty girl with an upturned nose that he remembered. She had eyes so blue and so cold that they might have been mistaken for sapphires, smooth red hair arranged in a delicate bun with perfect tendrils framing her face along with skin so clear that he swore it must be some form of artifice. Clad in an ice blue gown and with clear white diamonds gilding her neck, she looked like a Northern queen of old. Her gown spoke of the rich heritage of her family with embroidered direwolves in a silver grey thread shot through the bottom of her dress and in the white direwolf shaped brooch that sat upon her bosom. 

Beautiful if a little fearsome, Jon thought to himself. How would he penetrate that air of frost upon her face?

“It is a pleasure to see you, Prince Jon,” Sansa said as she dipped into a half curtsey. 

“Lady Sansa.” He brought her soft white hand up and kissed it with a gentlemanly air. “I am grateful to have this moment with you before our marriage. I cannot believe it has been five years since last we met though I hope you find me more agreeable now.”

Her smile widened by a mere sliver. “You are certainly more agreeable than the rough, ill-mannered boy I remember.”

“Yet, I find your tongue is unchanged. Sharp words with a smile, that is the Sansa that I remember, although you are less guarded in who you wield your tongue upon. Have you forgotten I am a prince now, no mere bastard boy?” Jon said. His dark eyes were trained upon hers, waiting to see her response.

“A prince, perhaps, but I am no less than a princess by blood. Have you forgotten my forefathers were Kings once upon a time?” A glint crept into her cool blue eyes. 

Jon chuckled. “How could I, my lady? Maester Luwin did not spare me from the Stark chronicles despite my pleas.”

“He has always been fastidious in his tutoring,” she said with a smile playing on her pale pink lips. “He spared not Robb nor me nor poor Arya nor Bran and now he spares not Rickon. It is his way as I’m sure you remember.”

“I do,” he said with a wistful look. “The years I spent at Winterfell, I count amongst my happiest times.” 

Memories played out within his mind: snowball fights with Robb, gruesome stories from Old Nan and exploring with an insistent Arya. 

Sansa’s face softened at his words. “Then, Prince Jon, you are back where you belong.”

The two of them continued their conversation with hushed voices and tentative smiles as they took this opportunity to know each other. Sansa’s cheeks grew warm with a flush of colour, no longer the ice maiden he had thought as they spoke of their childhood memories. Her childhood seemed so pleasant in comparison to the years he had spent being passed around noble house to noble house until his father came to claim him from the Duke Eddard. She had a melodic voice, that was true, but he also was amused by the way her tone shot up in excitement and dropped down when she realised that they might be overheard by one of the many servants who stood guard by the room. Listening to her tales, he felt a sense of loss creep up on him. Two glorious years he had spent with the Duke Eddard at Winterfell, the seat of the Starks, and then he had been ripped away from the informality of the North to learn his heritage in the warmth of the South. He shook away the sad thoughts dripping into his mind. Sansa’s lively blue eyes and sometimes wicked smile were more than enough to bring him back to their conversation. 

A new joy stretched at his lips as he savoured the sound of her dulcet voice.

—

Eight days had passed since his arrival at Winterfell. Eight days in which it seemed like he had never left from its enfolded arms. Eight days in which he had learnt something new about Sansa on each of the days.

“Prince Jon,” said the Marquess Robb as he entered Jon’s bedroom with a bow. 

Jon clasped him in an embrace. “Robb!” A hint of a smile crept across his face. “Your father told me you were at the border securing our land.”

“Uncle Benjen can take care of it for the next week,” Robb said. “I hear you are to marry my sister, Sansa. I’m glad that she’s not frightened you away yet, she can be quite a hard taskmaster.”

A chuckle escaped his lips. “She could not scare me away. What would be the point of our betrothal if I was so easily frightened?”

“The betrothal that we had all given up hope on since your father took you away from Winterfell, Prince Jon,” Robb said with a solemnity in his voice despite the twinkle in his eye. 

“Stop calling me Prince Jon. We are to be brothers you and I,” Jon said. 

A smile broke out on Robb’s face. “We have been brothers since the day you stepped foot in Winterfell.” Silence fell between them for a moment. “However as Sansa’s brother, I have a few words that I must say to you before your marriage.”

“I will treat her well, Robb. Upon my honour, I have grown to enjoy her company and I promise I will provide for her in every way-” 

Robb interrupted. His lips were curved into a smirk. “I have every faith in you, I rather meant to warn you about Sansa’s temper.”

“Should I pretend that I did not hear that, brother?” Sansa entered the room, arms laden with what appeared to be fur. She placed it down on the side, her eyes fixed upon Robb. 

“If you would be so kind, sister.” With a playful gesture, he saluted at Sansa. “How are your preparations going?”

“Well,” Sansa said with narrowed eyes at Robb.

Confusion crept onto Jon’s face. Sansa and Robb appeared to be engaged in some form of non-verbal discussion judging by the the set of Sansa’s jaw as she looked upon her older brother with a sternness in her eyes. It was strange for Jon to see them in such a manner. When he had left, Sansa had obeyed Robb’s words without resistance whereas now they stood as equals with determination on both their faces. A loneliness took hold of him. He had no siblings, his childhood had been one bereft of friends and as he watched them he felt a peculiar jealousy that they had an easy manner with each other. Her hand now was entrenched firmly on her hip yet still no words crossed her lips. Jon noted the slight incline of Robb’s head, a sure sign that Sansa had won their sibling discussion. 

Robb clapped Jon on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Sansa wants to have a private word.” The corners of his lips quirked up as his tone grew more teasing with each word. 

“Of course,” Jon said. 

The two of them waited for Robb to leave; curiosity sweeping through Jon’s body as Sansa stood silent until her brother had left. 

“Are you well, Sansa?” Jon asked with a slight furrow in his forehead. 

Sansa gathered up the fur she had brought in with her and held it out to him with a nervous gesture. “I made this for you.”

Looking at it, he realised that she had made him a coat of fur. His hands travelled across the coat, feeling every strand of the soft fur that had been used to make it as pleasure spread through his body. Sansa had made this for him. He shook it out so that he might see it in full. It was a handsome mixture of black and grey with extra fur wrapped around to make a collar that he was sure would be warming in the cold winter. Joy sprung into his expression as he noticed the white direwolf clasp that was a matched pair with her brooch. She had woven together this coat for him. Jon felt the stitches beneath his fingers, tiny and regimented, as he inspected every inch of the coat that she had made for him. He looked up at her pale face that watched him with expectant eyes. Slipping it on, he felt the fur encase his body in a warmth that was unmatched by any burning hot brazier. Her eyes widened. He fastened the clasp with fumbling fingers and was delighted to see that two flushes of pink had developed upon Sansa’s face.

“It is-” He paused for a moment. “It is a wonderful coat, Sansa. Truly I do not think I can find the words to thank you for such a gift.” His heart began to beat faster. “I am grateful and honoured to receive such a present from you.”

“I am glad you like it, Prince Jon,” she said with a tender smile, the nerves no longer written across her face. 

Jon stepped closer to her. “You must call me Jon if we are to be married, Sansa.”

“Very well. I am glad you like it, Jon,” she said with a special emphasis on his name. “It is a fitting gift for the man who is to be my husband and it would please me if you were to wear it on our wedding day.” She met his eyes with a flicker of hope in her own. 

“I would be honoured,” he said as his heart pounded.

Leaning closer to her, he could see the light freckles that dusted her cheeks and the gap between her pink plump lips inviting him to kiss them. 

“Sansa?” 

Jon moved away from Sansa just as Arya burst into the room. His heartbeat thudded against his chest as he tried to maintain a normal expression. He saw Sansa rearrange her face, the pink spots all but disappear, as she looked at Arya.

“Mother is insisting I have to wear a frilly, pink dress for your wedding despite the fact that we already agreed that I could wear a silver-grey one instead. We agreed that, didn’t we?” Arya fixed her sister with a look. 

Jon let out a chuckle. “I will leave you two to discuss your finery options for the wedding as I am now completely prepared.”

“No, we will leave. It is your bedroom. Come on, Arya,” Sansa said as she tugged her sister out of the room with an apologetic look thrown back at Jon.

After they left, a frustrated grunt escaped him. He had been so close to Sansa, could almost taste the lemon cakes upon her lips and they had been thwarted by Arya. He let out a breath. At least Arya would never dream of thrashing him which may well have happened if they had been caught by Robb or the Duke Eddard. Jon quietened his imagination. Soon. They would be married in the godswood in a fortnight and then they would be able to continue uninterrupted. It was such a tantalising thought: Sansa dressed in her wedding gown and standing before him in his bedroom as they took the next step in knowing each other. He hoped that they would satisfy each other. 

—

A rare beauty with tumbling tresses of fire red approached him, her father on one arm and her brother on the other. Wonder stole his breath away as he gazed upon his soon to be bride. Silver glistened across her body from the pointed tiara atop her head to the embroidered silk shoes that adorned her feet. He met her sapphire blue eyes with nerves mounting in his body. His mouth grew dry. Jon thought she had never looked more like a Northern queen than she did today. Her gown was silver too, a light snowy white speckled with diamonds that glinted under the pale yellow light of the sun. Cloaked in a grey fur, she stood in front of him with her lips curved into a smile. A radiant glow emanated from her as if she were some ethereal goddess stood before him, a pale bright flame amongst the darkness of the godswood. He drank in the sight of her, his heart growing with each moment that passed, unaware of the laughing smirk that had fastened itself to Robb’s face and the gruff chuckle that escaped the Duke’s lips. Even the the weirwood tree in front of him appeared to be amused. 

“I present my sister, the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, to be married before the gods,” Robb said in front of the trees that surrounded them.

A cough seized hold of his throat. After several splutters, Jon managed to speak his part. “I am Jon, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, here to be married before the gods.”

“I am the Duke Eddard Stark, father to Sansa, who will give her hand away to the Prince Jon,” he said. 

A loud sniffle escaped from the bride’s mother who was clutching a handkerchief to her mouth. 

“Do you, Sansa, accept the Prince Jon as your husband?” The Duke Eddard’s eyes were moist.

“I, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, take this man to be my husband before the gods.” Her voice was clear as a pealing bell as she made her vow in the godswood.

The Duke Eddard joined their hands together in front of the heart tree and bade them to kneel so that the old gods would accept their marriage. As they bowed their heads, Jon stole a glance at Sansa who he was pleased to see was doing the same thing. Their eyes met in silence before turning to look upon the heart tree. Sat amongst the grass upon the floor, Sansa’s hair seemed to be darker and more glorious against her white gown. Jon tried to concentrate on the prayers he was meant to be making but his mind strayed to the beautiful woman sat besides him whose rich jewelled eyes were hidden behind porcelain skin. After a moment, they rose together hand-in-hand to face their captive audience. He felt Sansa’s bride cloak, a rich indigo to complement her eyes made in the softest of silk and lined with white fur, being pressed into his hands by a smirking Arya after he removed Sansa’s maiden cloak. A rousing cheer swept through those who had come to view his marriage. 

“You are mine,” he whispered to her as he lifted her in his arms, holding her with happiness, as per the old traditions. “And I am yours.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, keenly aware of the people who surrounded them. 

Sansa pressed her lips to his neck, hidden by her bride cloak. “You are mine and I am yours by the old gods and the new.” 

It was their own addition to the traditional ceremony. Words that promised their loyalty, their love and themselves to the other. Her hair tickled his chin as they walked to the great feast organised in their honour, his mind thinking of nothing but the comforting weight in his arms who smiled up at him with a lone tear trailing down her cheek. Her mother still sobbed to the side as she was escorted by the Duke Eddard to the hall whilst Arya walked with a surprising grace in the grey gown that she had fought to wear. Robb led the way, good humour spread across his face, whilst Bran led Rickon behind him. He was hungry yet he knew the hunger was not for food. Desire burned within him. He wanted to carry Sansa straight into his bedroom, their bedroom now, and feel her lips against his own. To feel her soft skin beneath his palms, to marvel at her smooth hair and to enjoy every moment from now until the end. Plastering a false smile upon his face as they entered the hall, he took his seat next to his wife and prayed for the feast to end with good haste. Sansa seemed to share his feelings with a squeeze of his hand, a silent message of solidarity. 

—

Epilogue

Two years had passed since their marriage. Two years in which the world changed twice over for them. The first had been a momentous surprise, a sweet and beautiful and clever daughter who looked every inch of her mother save for her soft grey eyes. The second had been an unexpected shock in the form of his father passing away leaving him as King of the Seven Kingdoms. And his darling Sansa as Queen. It had been difficult to uproot from their chosen home in the North to settle back down in the South but Sansa had not complained for a single moment though he was sure she often wanted to do so. She had not complained about leaving her family behind nor about the difficulty in resettling with newborn Aelys and no bad word had crossed her lips about her future as a Queen being brought forward. In short, Jon found himself with plenty of admiration for his lady wife. 

“Jon?” She huddled closer to him beneath the thin blanket that covered them. “What are you thinking about so early in the morning?”

“Nothing significant,” he said as he embraced her. 

Sansa’s sleep filled eyes narrowed at him. “You are an awful liar, Jon. Truly, I have seen better lies from Rickon and he is but a child.”

“I was thinking of how much I love you, my Sansa,” he said with sincerity. 

“Jon,” she said half in reproach and half with tenderness. “I love you too.” 

All of a sudden, he felt her gentle lips brush against his own with a reassurance embedded in the gesture. Jon had never known such unconditional love. It still surprised him that Sansa was so open and so giving in their relationship whereas he struggled to voice his feelings to her without fear or shame about her answer. Soon he felt his heartbeat thrum beneath his chest as he tasted her tongue, their mouths moving with frenzied energy. He wound his hands into her loose red hair, stroking each strand with care, as their bodies became entwined. Rapid breaths began to slip out of his mouth. Their mouths met again and again as their hands wandered the vast landscape of each other’s bodies. His mind was clear of his earlier thoughts. Desire and love and lust were the only things he could conceive at this moment. 

A shrill wail broke the moment. 

Rolling away from Sansa, he caught his breath. “Will we never find a minute’s peace?”

“Maybe once she is a little older,” Sansa said as she started to climb out of bed. 

Jon caught her arm. “Stay. You were awoken several times in the night. I will see to her.” He got out of bed and lifted sweet Aelys from her cradle. 

“I can see she is her father’s daughter. She stopped crying the minute you picked her up whereas she wails on and on when it is me who carries her,” Sansa said with a mischief in her tone. “Perhaps you ought to be on duty tonight.”

“Gladly. Our sweetheart is no bother at all, are you?” Jon said to the baby in his arms. “You just prefer your father’s arms, is that not right?”

Aelys giggled as she reached up to touch his face with pudgy baby fingers.

“Mother is the one whose going to dress you, is she not?” Sansa approached. “Otherwise if I left it to your father you’ll only ever wear blacks, greys and blues like him.” She reached out to caress Aelys’s cheek. 

Jon slipped an arm around Sansa’s waist. In two years, they had built a family of their own and a life of their own. Sometimes, he could not believe his fortune. Marrying Sansa had given him all that he had craved from childhood. A lovely daughter, an attractive wife and a large family who loved him as if he was their own. The Duke had become a father to him just as he had meant to be all those years ago even if the Duchess was somewhat less fond. Robb, Bran and Rickon were the brothers he had never been blessed to have and Arya was the younger sister whom he loved as if she were his own. Jon had found happiness with Sansa and he vowed to cherish it for the rest of his life. He was fortunate too in that he admired and loved his betrothed, that their betrothal had been respected when it could have so easily been wrenched away from him. He would not think on what could have been any longer, he would only think of what could be waiting for them in their future. 

He hoped it included at least two more children, a marriage in which he could give away the unconventional bride and the possibility of growing old together. 


End file.
